House of Spirits
by kasura
Summary: Nerdanel writes...


House of Spirits

There was a girl, hidden in the vale, with majestic trees, forest creatures and singing birds as faithful childhood companions. Her parents told her she was the loveliest girl in the world, even when her face was smeared from mud by rolling down the mossy hills, or her body grew strong like the tall trees from the forest, her limbs stretched far and solid like tree branches from her daily routine at the forge, smelting the ores and sculpting life out of rocks. But no one else did. Her mother's occasional visitors cooed over her trinkets, and praised her precocious talents - which was unsurpassed by others girls in her age, but they never, not even once, told her she's lovely or pretty. But what does it matter, to her, high art is her goal, her aspiration.

Then a handsome prince came. (How amazing to meet royalty in a cottage far, far away from civilization!) His black eyes shone with passionate fires, and his hands are deft and skillful. When he saw her – she had discovered – she's neither lovely nor pretty, but beautiful. And he told her that with his lips, his hands, his eyes, and spoke of her beauty furthermore in the statues he sculpted, the jewels he created, and the frescoes in his workshop.

The girl was utterly swept off her feet. She melted in his fiery embrace after the silver ring was solemnly and lovingly placed on her rough finger, exchanging eternal promises under the starry night. She felt being hugged until she couldn't breathe anymore was worth anything in the world. They were married soon after, and that was only the beginning….

Nerdanel placed her journal down. There were so many things to write, little details to account for, that she could only write down as her thoughts led her, and took a respite whenever her cold hands were tired of scripting. Nevertheless, all events has a beginning, so once she has completed that part, the rest would pour out like waterfalls in springtime.

She sighed. A draft of chill air breezed in from nearby window bane. Her still bright amber eyes wandered around the house she had abandoned. Silence and quietness welcomed this penitent host. Velvety, rich curtains remained fixed on the iron rod, with bouquets of flowers splashed across the purple textiles. Her crystals and bone china sets were safely ensconced in the rosewood cabinets. The furniture faded from usage, but not from the passage of time. Nothing changes, except people.

Realizing it is already midday, Nerdanel rose from the stiff, wooden chair to go about preparing a meal to sate her hunger, leaving her warm shawl on the chair. As she entered the kitchen to take out a pan from the top cabinet, her ears detected a few familiar sounds behind her. _They are back_.

She wanted to ask questions but refrained to do so, for the fear of breaking the illusions. Her boys ran wild toward her, all at once. They wanted to tell her but could not shut out the other siblings from joining the cacophony of words. Carnistir had been the most communicative of the bunch, commenting from beans to math to the weather until everyone's ears dropped. His mouth opened wide, but no sound came out. Then he gestured franticly, trying to hit Tyelkormo at the same time, blaming him for being born before him and in cohort with Atarinke to play pranks on him. Macaulaure yelled, his elegant finger pointing to the other side of the house, where Ambarussa ran, gliding downward on the banister, giggling, not a day older than twenty. Russandol's left hand rested on her shoulder to soothe her anxiety, responsible as ever.

They vanished, fluttering out of the house like young birds. Where do the brothers go when they disappeared? Never fear, these prodigal children will be back around dinnertime, lounging elegantly on the gilded dinning chairs, vivid in deep discussions of the day's events, adorable faces animated and lit with passions with a few groans of hungers in between, impatient and demanding as children are, driving their watcher tender and mad.

And she kept writing, writing a history no one would bother to read, writing her tales of where it had begun.


End file.
